


Beauty and the Beast

by goingbacktohogwarts



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Beauty and the Beast, Beauty and the Beast Elements, M/M, Slow Burn, Some Swearing, self love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbacktohogwarts/pseuds/goingbacktohogwarts
Summary: Ronan Lynch lives in a small village where nobody knows or wants to know anything of the outside world. Ronan doesn't care much either, but he's so desperate to learn to invent like his father did that he spends long days puzzling over technical drawings that make his head ache. One evening, after another inevitable fight with Declan, they discover that Matthew has not returned from his ride. It is now late after dark, and the woods will soon be filled with wolves. Ronan treks into the woods on a solitary mission, determined to find his brother alive. He doesn’t count on stumbling across a Beast.





	1. Chapter 1

Ronan Lynch was a scramble of broken thoughts, fruitless ideas and pointless desires. His brain forever ran in circles, motions of endless thought bolstered by his frustration as he holed himself away in the little attic they called the study. When Ronan did emerge, it was usually in search of alcohol or a street fight, or sometimes his elder brother’s very punchable face.

He’d been staring at the same drawing of the same machine for weeks now. The desperation to make it work ached in his chest, but he felt as though any coherent thought were being drowned in the waves of exasperation crashing on the shores of his mind. His eyes felt like they’d been open too long, his limbs were heavy with fatigue.

He made himself stand and walk around the small study. It had been his father’s. Niall Lynch had been an infinitely charming man, able to hold a room in the palm of his hand and convince the people in it that there was nowhere they’d rather be.

Niall Lynch, handsome in every sense of the word, had been a lover of only three things; his work, the Irish music of his roots, and his family. Not necessarily in that order. He would vanish for months at a time, and then return briefly only to be revered by all who’d missed him, which was to say, everybody. His wife loved him dearly, his sons loved him fiercely, and the village loved him relentlessly.

And then he was found in a ditch, skull smashed in by one of the heavy wheels from his overturned cart that still lay on the path. Ronan had inevitably been the one to find him.

Ronan’s breathing stuttered before resuming it’s normal pace. His mind was never far enough away from that image. He scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, over his head and through his hair, angry at how his stomach barely lurched anymore when his mind stumbled and remembered how his father lay there, broken in the mud. Apathy was beginning to sink deep into his bones.

He jumped as the door banged open and his older brother, Declan, advanced towards him, anger flowing from his mouth before he even began to speak. If people had met the brothers once and then tried to recall their faces, they remembered how vastly different they were; Declan with his broad smile and thick, glossy hair, and his handshake that promised his support of whatever you claimed, and Ronan with his wide, sharp smile and dark, handsome hair, and his crossed arms that guaranteed his disdain of pitiful attempts to earn his favour. But, of course, these things were really not so different from the other, and so, when people compared the brothers side by side, they noticed that perhaps the two men did share the same straight nose and intelligent eyes, and indeed, a similar tension, unmistakeable in the line of their shoulders.

At this particular moment, Ronan observed the differences between himself and his brother.

“Care to explain?” Declan shoved a piece of paper in Ronan’s face, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Ronan’s immovable expression. Ronan barely spared the paper a glance before tossing it behind him.

He met his brother’s gaze, all contempt, “It seems to be a list of cancelled payments from the business.”

Declan rolled his eyes and strode, hands on his hips, towards the door he’d thrown open moments earlier but no intention of leaving quite yet. As his next words formulated in his head, he spun round, his finger pointed back at Ronan, “How am I supposed to sort out this business if you’re constantly hijacking everything I accomplish?”

Ronan scoffed, “I didn’t hijack anything-“

“Then how do you explain that?” Declan gestured angrily towards the discarded piece of paper.

Ronan’s face tightened as he stepped into Declan’s space, tense arms crossed over his chest, “All you’ve ‘accomplished’ is a trade deal with a couple of frauds. You’re hijacking yourself.”

Declan leaned in, spitting in Ronan’s face, “It isn’t up to you to decide, Ronan.” He jabbed a finger into Ronan’s chest, and Ronan snapped. He shoved Declan away, hard, and with enough force to make him stumble back through the study door. Ronan quickly shifted his footing as Declan leapt forward, his hands automatically thrusting up to make fists. He moved swiftly, neatly missing Ronan’s jaw, and Ronan responded by neatly hitting Declan’s jaw. Declan gave a small grunt as the force of the hit carried him back, but he was ready to retaliate quickly enough. Just as Declan lurched forward, a door banged downstairs and a voice sounded up the staircase.

“Declan? Ronan? Is that you?”

It was Matthew.

“I’m coming!” Declan yelled back, avoiding Matthew’s question, grinding his teeth as he straightened his shirt, before promptly turning around and trudging down the stairs. Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose, smiling humourlessly at Declan’s avoidance of the truth.

Ronan stood, buzzing with pent up energy for minutes after Declan had made his abrupt exit. Eventually, he turned back to the desk, although his mind was filled with thoughts of his father and Declan and Matthew, scrambling for his attention. He’d been attempting to work through some of the ideas that had been running round in his mind for months now, desperately trying to recreate what he imagined on paper, but he couldn’t seem to translate the creations of his mind in to reality.

He sat down heavily and adjusted the thin shirt he was wearing.

It was too humid to think.

He adjusted it again.

He craved the relief of the later hours.

He sighed heavily.

Ronan stood up quickly and paced around the small space, running hand after frantic hand through his thick hair. He would go bald by the time he was twenty, at this rate. Agitated, he leaned against the wall and gazed out the window.

Ronan couldn’t focus. Declan always managed to draw that expansive anger to the surface. The pointlessness left him feeling irritated, and fizzy. Declan seemed to bring out every weakness, every one of his flaws, before leaving too soon, the aggression simmering in his skin and crawling up his spine for hours after the conflict.

He turned his head and allowed the sunlight warm his face. Shutting his eyes, he forced the tightness in his chest to loosen until it subsided enough for his thoughts to manifest somewhat coherently once more.

He still couldn’t work however, so he strode rapidly out of the house, slamming each door as he went, and walked towards the village library. He moved easily out of the way of bakers and greengrocers, shoppers and salesmen, the required manoeuvres an old habit left over from childhood. The scattered voices calling from all sides had confused a younger Ronan, an unnecessary addition to the chaotic voices in his head, but as he’d grown older, he’d learned to let the noise blend together, until it was barely a pin drop in the ocean of his own thoughts.

One coarse voice broke through the white noise, though. Ronan didn’t turn his head as Kavinsky yelled, ‘Lynch!’ across the bustling courtyard. He didn’t turn his head when he yelled it a second time, and he didn’t turn for the third.

As he made his way to the village library, Ronan caught a glimpse of a roof in the distance; it belonged to one of the tallest buildings in the village, aside from the clock tower. The house was situated further apart from the village than any other and as such, a sprawling farm and multiple outhouses surrounded it. It was affectionately, or perhaps pragmatically, called The Barns. It had also been the Lynch family home.

Something inside Ronan ached without warning. Upon Niall Lynch’s death, the three Lynch brothers had been told that in accordance with their father’s will, they could never enter the premises of The Barns again if they wished to inherit their fortune when they reached eighteen. They’d had to abandon their mother, who had stopped speaking soon after their father’s murder, for she would not move from the her chair in the house. Declan and Ronan had entrusted her to the care of some of the older women of the village who visited every week.

Their mother had not moved now for 15 months.

 

The library was just as bare as it had been when Ronan was young, but seven years ago a young man had moved to the tiny village. He was quiet and solitary, but he was widely read and seemed to enjoy Ronan’s company, which was rare. He seemed to have an uncanny way of discerning Ronan’s thoughts from the scramble of his mind, a feat Ronan could never hope to accomplish.

The library was small and shabby, the walls smudged and worn. The interior was much the same, except for the addition of ten decrepit novels and the smiling librarian. He mused at how the library seemed such an accurate mirror of the librarian himself.

Ronan walked purposefully towards the open door, and called out, “Czerny?” He walked a couple of steps further in to the dusty space before Noah Czerny leaned out from behind a bookcase, smile creases deep as his grin was wide. “Ronan!” He stepped carefully off the ladder and brushed off his faded trousers. Ronan wondered again at the man’s youthful face, at odds with his hands resting loosely in his pockets, resembling so distinctly a man far deeper in to his adult years than Noah could possibly be. There were people living in the village who swore Noah Czerny hadn’t aged a day in all the time they’d known him. Ronan smiled despite himself at the village’s ability to spin any slight abnormality into a fairy story.

“So, anything new?” Ronan knew it was a vain attempt, and although it had somewhat turned in to a joke amongst the two of them, he always asked Noah with a naïve flicker of hope. Noah stamped out that hope pretty quickly as his grin thinned a little, “Sorry, Ronan. You know how it is around here-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ronan scuffed his shoes against the ground, as he walked over to one of the scant bookshelves, “Flour and fucking wheat will always be more important than books, because nobody around here can fathom the possibility that what they know might not be the ultimate limit to what there is to know.” Ronan felt acutely guilty for the sound in his rough voice, knowing there was a sharpness there that Noah did not deserve, but Noah’s smile brightened as he replied, “Well, I must say there is something to be said for prioritising food over fairy stories.”

Ronan turned to look at Noah, the other man’s eyes shining with supressed humour. Ronan barked a laugh at the unexpected joke and ran a hand through his hair. The old women in the village loved Noah Czerny, who seemed insistent on reading to them as they sat on their porches during the midday heat. Ronan was lucky Noah had returned from his humanitarianism project, as the sun was barely drooping. Ronan silently pleaded it to set faster.

He pulled a book off the shelf, sighing dramatically, mostly for Noah’s benefit, “I guess I’ll have to read this old thing again,” It was an original copy of ‘Moste Olde and Intriguing Inventions of the Modern Era’, and the familiar weight of it in his hands settled the thing inside him that was still buzzing from the fight. Ronan looked up at Noah again, who was watching him with an odd expression on his smudgy face. Ronan didn’t know what to do with that expression, so he turned and stamped the book himself with the ink on the table near the door. He sometimes felt as though Noah knew more about Ronan than he let on. The action of stamping the book helped a bit, just like how the familiarity of the weight of the book helped a bit. But only a bit.

Noah chuckled, already moving back to climb the creaky ladder he had been clinging to when Ronan barged in, “Make sure you return it on time, in case some other poor soul has set their heart on it by the time you come back,” Ronan snorted, not bothering to reply as he strolled out of the building, smirking. Ronan couldn’t remember first meeting Noah, having replaced that memory with a more painful one. When he talked to Noah for the first time after his father had been murdered, Ronan hadn’t really been talking to anyone, and had resorted to wandering aimlessly through the countryside that surrounded the village to avoid Declan. He’d pictured what it would be like to just run and run and run across the hills until his heart was satiated or his lungs gave out. He’d just wanted to _do_ something; to hit something, to hit the man who did it, to hit Declan, to tear himself apart, to break every bone in his body. He’d stopped feeling much of anything after a while, and that’s how Noah had found him, on one of the few occasions Noah left the library, without the intention of read to old women.

Noah hadn’t tried to talk to him about his father. He hadn’t offered his apologies or raged at the unknown murderer. Noah had simply stood next to him in the fields and made bad jokes about famous inventors and then walked him back to the shabby little library and blown dust off of the few old books that scattered the shelves, often in to Ronan’s face, until Ronan started feeling enough again to get irritated.

 

He ran now, breaking in to a sprint once he left the centre of the village, crashing through back alleys until he was charging up one of the green hills that overlooked the small village. Breathing hard and fast, he reached the top of the hill and looked out to the horizon, revelling in the small relief that came from being forced to think about one thing only as he bent over in his attempts to catch his breath. It felt good to breathe in the cooling air.

He swung around clumsily at the sound of grass being trampled, but it was only Matthew on one of the two horses the Lynches owned. Matthew was roughly half a mile away on the grey, whom Niall had pretentiously named Opal, finding himself whimsically fanciful in the moment. Matthew’s golden curls bounced off the back of his head as he set the horse at a gallop across the field, heading towards the edge of the forest. Ronan breathed in slowly, watching his brother. His smile was bright and gleeful and it softened something inside of Ronan, just a little bit. He breathed out deeply, the tightness in his chest easing as he watched.

He stayed like that for a while after his brother disappeared in to the trees, the light from the setting sun catching the tops of the trees, their leaves golden and dead from autumn. He placed his hands in his pockets as he set about wandering back down the hill, and wondered at the effect Matthew seemed to have on both himself and Declan. Another similarity between the two, and yet he didn’t mind admitting this one. Matthew was a golden child who could do no wrong in either of his brothers’ eyes. They would soften themselves infinitely if it meant he had a less troubled childhood than their own.

The dimming light limned everything in gold. His pace slowed progressively as he drew nearer to the house in which Declan no doubt lingered, still seething.

As it turned out, he was wrong; his older brother met him long before he reached the house, accompanied by the greengrocer, and some of the young men who were known for frequenting the pub trailed behind. The severe lines of Declan’s face were familiar, but the glint in his eyes unsettled Ronan.

“Ronan!” Declan jogged the last few steps over to him, “Have you seen Matthew?”

Desperate. Declan was desperate.

“Matthew?” Ronan’s heart seemd to be tripping over the same beat over and over again, “He was headed over to the woods on Opal, last I checked,” The nonchalance of his own voice cut him deep as he forced his hands further into his pockets.

“You saw him? On _Opal_? Ronan, what the hell are you talking about?” Declan was too close, he’d stepped too far into Ronan’s personal space, and it snapped that thing inside him for the second time that day.

“Declan, back the fuck off,” he snarled, “I saw Matthew riding across the fields over the other side of the village, and he was headed towards the woods. Alright?” He folded his arms firmly over his chest, desperately trying to clear the thick fear from his throat. The clarity he’d felt on the hilltop was already slipping away.

Declan took a step back and folded his arms in a mirror image, albeit half a foot shorter; “I found Opal nosing her way through the greengrocers’ over an hour ago! I assumed she’d loosened herself and wandered off, and you’re telling me you saw Matthew riding in to the woods and you didn’t stop him?”

Ronan crossed his arms more tightly, “Why would I? He rides all the time!”

“Not into the woods after dark, Ronan!” Declan took a step towards him. Ronan felt an unpleasant twinge of guilt as he thought about just how long he’d remained on that hill after watching Matthew disappear into the dense forest. He’d be damned if he let Declan think it was his fault though.

“I don’t know what you think ‘after dark’ is but the sun was happily shining away from where I was standing when I saw him, and who gives a fuck if he’s in the woods?” Ronan couldn’t stand keeping his arms folded any longer and threw them up in exasperation.

“Ronan, for once in your life, think about someone else!” Declan’s eyebrows were thunderous, “Matthew is in the woods. The wolves are getting ready to hunt and Matthew is on a horse he can’t really control, in the dark! For the love of-“ He cut himself off sharply, struggling for words, “And you can’t see why that’s not a good idea?”

Ronan took a step forwards so that he and Declan were nose to nose, “The wolves aren’t going to be hunting until winter at least and you know it, so don’t try and make me feel stupid. Matthew is perfectly capable of riding horses as far as I’m aware, so

He took a breath, conscious that Declan would never hit him with the other men standing so close. He growled out, “Stop telling me this is my fault.”

Ronan’s hands were shaking so he shoved them back in his pockets, burying his worry in bitter fury. Declan took several slow steps back, shaking his head, incensed, before turning his back on Ronan and facing the other men as he murmured orders for a search party. Ronan’s jaw tightened and he turned away, resuming his journey back to the house.

 

Upon reaching the gate, an idea had formulated. He walked through the gate casually and on through the house, in case any of their nosy neighbours happened to glimpse him, and then hurried through the back door to the small stable Niall had built in the garden behind the house on one of his brief reappearances between journeys. Declan had returned Opal to her stall, and the knot was tighter than usual. Ronan allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of Declan discovering the empty stall once more, before swinging into the saddle that remained from Matthew’s earlier ride. 

He eased her through back alleys towards the opposite side of the village. There came an exasperated shout from far behind him and he knew Declan had discovered the missing horse. Ronan gave one humourless cackle and urged Opal into a faster trot; there was no point in being quiet now. He raced through the village and urged Opal to move even faster when they reached the open fields, riding towards the small opening in the dark band of trees. “Come on, Matthew,” he murmured, Declan’s uptight rage feeding whichever beast was waking in his chest.

He slowed Opal down when they entered the woods, careful with branches and roots. Adrenaline fuelled him as he dismounted to heave logs off the path, knowing Matthew would have attempted to jump most of them, and Ronan felt the familiar shivers run down his arms as darkness trickled in through the trees. His stomach and heart wound together in knot as the night grew even darker and he began calling out Matthew’s name, desperation a tight ball in his throat. Opal was beginning to slow, and she seemed increasingly less willing to continue along the path. Ronan walked beside her, urging her on. Hopelessness tore into him, and it disturbed Ronan how easily the old hatred poured in to the cavities of old wounds.

Without warning, Opal reared away from the path. Ronan hurried to calm her, running frantic hands through her mane, whispering empty words of comfort until she settled enough for him to look for what had frightened her. They were standing at a fork in the path, two inosculated trees growing in between. A great stone castle, dilapidated and ruined, stood but half a mile away. Ronan’s breath caught in his throat. He knew these woods intimately and had never come across any buildings, castles or otherwise.

Gritting his teeth, he mounted Opal and squeezed her sides gently; there was a chance she would move towards the castle now that she could feel his familiar presence. He released a breath as she began to walk down the path to the right.

As they neared the entrance of the old building, the emptiness of the place became increasingly obvious. He couldn’t believe anyone lived there. Surely they would have visited the village, for food if nothing else. Theirs was the only settlement for miles. Ronan felt his curiosity spiking as he tied Opal to the post of a dusty stable in the gardens of the enormous castle, and strode to the front door, lifting the heavy knocker. He let it drop, the bang echoing off of the stone walls for far longer than seemed plausible. The door opened, creaking noisily as it swung inwards. The front room was candlelit, but when Ronan peered around for the person who’d let him in, there was no one in sight.

He startled at a rustling from behind him, but there was only a coat rack there with one greatcoat hanging from it, dusty with disuse. He assumed the door must have knocked it as it opened. His neck prickled with the knowledge that _someone_ must have opened the door. Shivering despite himself, he moved hesitantly towards the roaring fire, allowing himself a moment of relief before starting up the staircase, ignoring the odd noises echoing around the room. He needed to focus all of his attention on finding Matthew. Ronan knew that if Matthew was scared or cold or just plain hungry, there was every possibility he would take a chance on an old foreboding castle. Ronan blew out a frustrated breath, his stomach churning.

The prickling of his neck crawled down his spine, and as he climbed the ornate staircase, he had the acute feeling he was being watched. He forced himself not to turn around.

He strode through the whole of the eastern wing of the castle, pushing through dank cloth-covered doorways and closed doors before he discovered a dark staircase hidden behind a portrait of a young boy with his family. A scuffle sounded from further up and urged him onward, the darkness thickening as he circled high into one of the towers. It baffled him how he’d never heard of this immense castle, how he’d never even spotted a stray turret on the horizon.

Finally, panting, he reached the top of the stairs. His heart surged into his throat when he spotted Matthew behind a barred door, his curls damp and dull in the dim light. Ronan felt something fragile inside him threatening to break as he leapt forward and knelt before the bars. Matthew’s large blue eyes welled with tears and he smiled wide and brilliant.

“Ronan!” But the smile quickly fell, fear in his eyes, “No! Ronan! He’s going to come and get you! You can’t be here! He’ll get you too!”

Matthew shook the bars in agitation, reaching through to push Ronan away.

“Matthew,” Ronan spoke slowly, all worry slipping away as he became someone Matthew could rely on, “It’s going to be okay. You and I will be just fine. Just tell me where the bastard that locked you in here is and we’ll be on our way.”

Ronan smiled as warmly as he was capable of, jolting when a soft voice spoke from the shadows beyond the cell, ‘Oh you will, will you?”


	2. Chapter 2

Ronan closed his eyes briefly before turning to face Matthew’s assailant. He was a beast, towering over seven feet, his ragged coat dragging on the floor as he took a step closer. His hands and feet were clawed, his fanged grin open and mocking.

Ronan cocked his head to one side, every inch a snake, “Care to explain?”  
The beast’s smile grew wider, amused. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and said, “The boy broke into my castle. I have every right to imprison him.”  
Ronan fought to keep the surprise off of his face. Ronan had readied himself for ferocity, for a deep growl almost too animal to be understood. The beast had a human voice, a Southern accent. It made Ronan’s blood boil.  
Ronan widened his smile, “I hope you know what a bad idea that was.” As the beast straightened, his pitying gaze sickened Ronan as he realised he couldn’t win this fight with his fists.  
The beast started to lumber closer; Ronan knew he had a split second to come up with a plan.  
“Me for him. That a good enough deal for you?”  
The beast slowed, his eyes narrowed in interest and Ronan felt something break inside him as Matthew screamed, “No, Ronan, you can’t!”  
Ronan spun around and knelt in front of Matthew, desperate, “Come on, who’s more likely to survive this guy, huh? You or me?”  
Matthew had tears streaming down his face, but he nodded, swallowing with difficulty, “Declan’s going to kill me,”  
Ronan barked a laugh at that, as if Declan would ever say so much as a harsh word to Matthew.  
The beast was watching carefully, but as Ronan stood he nodded slowly, taking a heavy ring of keys out of one of the pockets in his great cloak and pushing past Ronan. Ronan grunted as the beast shoved past and considered the possibility of grabbing Matthew as soon as he was free and running for it.  
The beast shoved Ronan roughly through the open door, before taking Matthew by the arm and hauling him out of the cell. Ronan reached out through the bars to grab Matthew and pull him closer to whisper in his ear, “Opal’s in the stable round the western side. Don’t you dare try and ride back to the village until sunrise. Wait in the stables. It won’t be long now. You’ve got to promise me.” Ronan leaned back to glare at Matthew until he nodded, more tears spilling onto his cheeks as his nose started running too.  
He wiped his face and whispered, “Promise,” before reaching through the bars to hug his brother.  
Ronan’s chest ached.  
“Go on, Matthew,” he murmured gruffly, gently pushing him back towards the stairs. Matthew took one step and then another, slow and reluctant, one hand on the wall to steady himself.  
Ronan turned away from the bars and pressed his forehead and his fists firmly against the damp wall so he didn’t have to watch Matthew disappear down that dark staircase.  
After a few moments, Ronan peered round and saw that the beast had turned his back on him, hunched over, returning the heavy ring of keys to his pocket.  
Eventually he turned and looked at Ronan, his face impassive,  
“Enjoy yourself,” he said quietly, and he began to trudge down the stairs after Matthew.  
Ronan held on to the bars for a long while afterwards, trying not to think.  
But Ronan had never been one for quiet meditation, and so Ronan hit the walls and kicked the bars and swore terribly until he could not breathe. He sank down in the corner of his small cell, feeling more desperate than he had in a long, long time.

He was falling. Fast, faster, quick as death. Without warning Ronan found himself standing amongst familiar trees. He could hear rushing water. Fireflies danced amongst the lower branches of the old trees, for Ronan knew this place, and so he knew that the trees were old. He took hesitant steps through the long grass, his skin humming with energy the closer he moved to a clearing up ahead. Ronan stepped through the gap in the trees, heart hammering irrationally as a cage materialised in front of him, entrenched in thick moss. He was panting now, his breath sharp in his chest. He reached out to fit his calloused hand through the bars. Something rustled behind him, and Ronan felt his adrenaline spike instinctively. The humming on his skin was painful now, his breaths grew shallower with every move. The rustle grew louder, dense footfalls discernible now from the emptier sounds of displaced leaves. His adrenaline spiked higher. Dizziness stamped out his hearing. He sucked in a breath as he closed his hand around cold metal, partially obscured by the rich moss. The footfalls thundered towards him. Ronan jerked his hand back from the cage, but it caught, the object too awkward to fit through the bars. Sweat trickled slowly down his spine. He thrashed his arm violently. His hand stuck to the object like clothes to burning flesh. His skin was screaming, it was on fire. The sound grew even closer, each footfall in time to Ronan’s frantic movement; why couldn’t he just let go of whatever the fuck was in his hand. He gasped shakily, his ears ringing from the trampling closing in from behind.  
He was convinced they had reached him, their jaws reaching for a taste of him, running a lingering claw down his drenched spine-

Ronan started awake. As always, he gazed down at his paralysed form, at that boy curled in on himself in a dirty corner of the cell. He looked fragile, useless, hugging himself like a child.  
Gradually, feeling returned to his limbs and he straightened up, every muscle in his body cursing him for sleeping on hard ground. He stood, stretching and running a brief hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and groaned; he had no idea how long he had been asleep.  
As he blinked away the tortured sleep, he heard footfalls on the steps, echoing up through the stone stairwell. Ronan watched warily as the beast rounded the corner, expression guarded. Ronan noticed the keys in his hand, and his heart stuttered in his confusion as the beast moved to unlock the cell. The beast straightened up, caught Ronan’s eye for a moment and said, “Follow me.’  
Ronan followed out of curiosity, half-hoping he could make a run for it. As he was led through the castle, it became increasingly apparent that the beast could overpower Ronan in a heartbeat. After many turns through cold passageways that all looked the same to Ronan, they started up the narrow staircase into one of the East Wing turrets.  
Eventually they reached the top. The beast opened the heavy wooden door and grumbled, “You can sleep here. Dinner is at 7,” before heading back down the stairs.  
Ronan stayed where he was, baffled. As he came to the conclusion that the beast was not coming back any time soon, he turned and had his shock renewed by his new cell. The room was nice. Disconcertingly nice. The bed was heaped with pillows, the furniture polished and decorative. He took a few tentative steps around the room, gravitating towards the window. He wished he could glimpse his village on the horizon; he thought of Matthew and his heart clenched.  
Somewhere behind him, someone coughed lightly. Ronan spun around, eyes darting around the room for the perpetrator. There was no one in sight but his heart still beat fiercely. His eyes caught on a tea set in the far corner and as he squinted at it the teapot shifted an inch to the left.  
“What’s your name, kid?”  
Ronan started. He took in a deep breath before reluctantly moving over to the tea set. Gingerly, he picked up the squat tea pot and peered closely at it.  
Abruptly, a face morphed on the side of the china and growled, “Do you mind?”  
Ronan almost dropped the teapot. He set it down quickly and watched agape as it clinked around on the spot grumpily.  
It glared at him, “Are you going to answer the question or just stand there gawking?”  
Ronan cleared his throat but before he could answer, another voice echoed around the room.  
“Leave the poor boy alone, Calla. He didn’t know.”  
Ronan turned his head so fast he cricked his neck. As he rubbed the muscle, he watched aghast as the feather duster flapped up into the air beside the bed.  
A loud bang came from the wardrobe as its drawers snapped open and shut. Another face emerged on the wooden front and a third voice echoed around the room, “Did Adam explain why he was keeping you here, Mr. . . ?”  
Ronan remained frozen to the spot for several seconds. He snapped out of his shock enough to answer, somewhat croakily, “Lynch. Ronan Lynch.”  
“Well, at least we know he can speak,” crowed Calla from behind Ronan. He glared over his shoulder at the teapot.  
“Well since you’re a fucking tea pot so I don’t think you can pass judgement on me.”  
The wardrobe cackled and Calla called, “Cut it out, Maura,” before a high pitched peal of laughter joined in from the feather duster and Calla clinked around to grumble, “Persephone!”  
Eventually the laughter faded away and Ronan’s heart slowed down enough to to process the last question. He turned to face the wardrobe.  
“Who is Adam?”  
Calla gave one long cackle, “What, you didn’t notice the big hunk of fur that showed you your room?”  
Ronan grimaced, “The beast?”  
They all laughed at his expense before the face in the wardrobe stretched into an indulgent smile, “His name is Adam. I’m Maura, and the Persephone’s the duster over there. Calla’s the tea pot behind you.’  
Swallowing hard, Ronan said, ‘Why can you talk?’  
‘Because some people don’t know how to listen to advice-’  
‘There’s a curse on the castle, Mr Lynch,’ Maura interjected over Calla, ‘Or rather, the people who reside within it. Adam was singled out, but the rest of us are stuck as household objects for the time being.’  
Ronan frowned, his pulse still thumping in his throat, ‘Why does nobody know?’  
‘A dilapidated castle hidden away in a forest? People will believe we’re dead before they risk their lives trekking into the mountains,’ replied Calla.  
Ronan sat down slowly on a polished wooden chest, ‘My village is not too far from the border of the forest, people must know it’s here?’  
‘You’re the first to venture into this rotting pile of stone, and we’ve been here a very long time,’ answered Maura, a hint of humour creeping into her voice.  
Ronan racked his brains for some mention of the castle in the village gossip, or perhaps the tales of the old women Noah so liked to read to. There was nothing, not even a whisper.  
A sudden flare of rage swept through Ronan, a clean wave of fury at the stupidity of this, the injustice. This was just too much, there was too much that didn’t make sense, there was too much of this that was so obviously beyond him.  
He stood and swiftly rammed his hand through the wall. It wasn’t enough. He did it again. He no longer cared. He had nothing to lose.


End file.
